my heart was breaking for you
by pressontoknow
Summary: Amy realizes she's in love with her best friend, but it's too late. Dealing with the aftermath plus a happy ending because I'm not heartless. Takes place sometime in Season 2.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm loving Season 3 so far because Jake and Amy are finally happy (!) but I'm also a huge fan of angst that leads to happy endings. So here's something I've been working on periodically for the past few months. Let me know what you think! I would love to have made someone cry.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Brooklyn 99.**

You're already a little tipsy when you decide to make your way to Shaw's, where you know you'll probably find at least a couple members of the team. It's been a really rough day—long hours, like always, and Jake being kind and warm and entirely unflirtatious, which has become like always too.

You hate it.

Your stomach clenches and your heart aches as you shuffle down the sidewalk, thinking about how much things have changed between you two. He used to be your best friend, your one constant, the one who turned your plans upside down and made you laugh until you were teary and held your hand after that one horrible day when you didn't find the little girl in time. But things are different ever since he told you he liked you, and then you were dating Teddy and he was dating Sophia. You're both single again, but things are still weird. He's keeping his distance, you can tell, and you miss him more than you've ever missed anything.

You try to pull yourself together enough to walk into the bar before realizing that you're still in yoga pants and a giant sweatshirt with some unidentifiable script across the chest. Could your night get any worse?

No matter. You're determined. Alcohol won't take the pain away but maybe it'll at least take the edge.

Your slightly tipsy haze allows you to navigate the throngs of people and make it to the bar without actually seeing if anyone you know is there. You tell the bartender you don't care, just something strong, and whatever he gives you is dark and smells like fire but you down it anyway and don't hiss at the burn because in comparison to your shredded heart what really hurts? You order another.

"Amy!" a voice exclaims, and you drag your weary eyes over to see Gina leaning up against the counter and grinning at you. She seems to be at the same stage of drunkenness as you—tipsy, but not entirely out of your wits yet. Her brows furrow in uncharacteristic concern when she see your face. "Hey girl, you look rough."

The corners of your mouth turn down at the words and when you blink a tear escapes from the eyes you didn't even realized had filled up. "I don't want to talk about it," you murmur softly in such a sad voice you feel bad for _yourself_ , your voice rough and scratchy with tears. "I thought maybe it'd help if I just drank it all away."

Gina shakes her head. "Nu uh, girlfriend, I really don't think that's what you need right now. I'm at a table with Jake, Rosa, and Boyle, come sit with us! We'll cheer you up."

You flinch, and your face becomes even sadder at the mention of him. Gina catches on. "Ah," she acknowledges simply. She gently grips your chin and turns your face toward her, forcing her to meet your eye. "Amy," in a serious tone you didn't even know she possessed, "you need to just tell him, 'kay? That's the first step. If he says no—which I really don't think he will, but if he does—well, that sucks, but at least then it's out in the open."

The alcohol sloshing around in your mostly empty stomach is impairing you sufficiently that you don't even catch onto her doubt at Jake not accepting you, and instead you just run a hand wearily over your face, catching onto some tears that spilled when you weren't paying attention. "I think it'd be worse to have him turn me down than not to know," you whisper sadly, staring down at the second drink that has appeared in your hand. A tear drips into the liquid and you admire the pretty color marred by rhythmic ripples. You sniff loudly and force yourself to meet Gina's eyes. "Don't worry about me," you say with an attempt at a smile. "After tonight, I've decided, I'm going to get over him. For real this time."

Gina's expression is utterly disbelieving, but finally she just shakes her head. "I can't force you," she acknowledges. She motions for the bartender and has him get you a glass of water, making you to drink the entire thing before she stands. "Drink all you want, Amy, but it's not going to help. Stay safe, okay?"

You deliberately don't watch her walk away because then you'll see him and you might do something stupid like start crying (harder, tears are still dripping down your face periodically) or jump on the countertop and declare your love to everyone in the building.

You sit quietly for awhile, sipping your drink every so often and hating it every time. Your goal had been to get rip roaring drunk but you've never been very good at that to begin with, even when it counts, apparently. Your breakup with Teddy only called for one glass of white wine with your dinner that night. If there was ever a night to be out of your mind it would be now, when the realization that you love a man who doesn't return the feeling is sitting heavy on your chest, but of course you're too practical, too rigid to even do this when it counts.

And there it is, you're back to berating yourself like you have been a lot lately. These constant thoughts about why he fell out of love with you, because he's told you as much. You're boring and practical and organized, while he's spontaneous and messy and light and _life_. The fact is, if you'd gotten your head out of your ass a year ago you'd have had someone who actually liked you the way you were while still being exciting enough to shake things up. Thing is, Jake had wised up by the time you came to your senses. The irony isn't lost on you that you hadn't gotten to that point when he was there, and he'd moved on by the time you caught up.

Story of your life. Always chasing after something and never quite getting it.

You've just taken another sip of… _whatever_ this disgusting concoction is, when in your peripheral vision you see someone slip into the stool beside you. You honestly couldn't care less because, one, no one's going to be hitting on the crying drunk girl and, two, you're kind of a wreck and they'll see that right off and run the other way.

"Didn't know you were the kind of person who liked it hard, Santiago."

You turn quickly to see it's _Jake_ sitting next to you, of all people in the entire freaking bar. He has a sort of dazed look on his face. "Wow, you may not believe me but I did _not_ mean for that to come out the way it did." He slaps his palm to his forehead. "My God."

Despite yourself you can't help but chuckle softly at his discomfort and his proclivity for turning literally anything into a dirty joke.

"What I was _trying_ to say," he continues, dragging his hand down his face, "is that I didn't think you liked strong liquor." His face softens as he sees your tear-stained face. "Amy," he breathes softly, and you curse your heart for squeezing the way it does at his gentle tone. "Gina said you were sad about something," he offers. "Wanna talk about it?"

Your laugh is a tiny bit hysterical and his eyes widen as you pull yourself together again and assume a more serious expression. Talking to him would kind of both fix and magnify all your problems. It's a tricky line you're walking here.

You sigh, allowing your face to fall again because maintaining any other emotion is currently impossible. "Do you think it gets any easier?"

"What?"

"Love," you whisper to your drink, glancing back at him too quickly for him to hide the way his eyes widen and then his shoulders drop dejectedly. You let out a bitter chuckle. "Yeah. Me neither."

He gnaws on his lip and meets your eyes again after a moment. "I don't think it gets much easier," he admitted, "but maybe eventually it's not quite as difficult." He shrugs. "Sorry. That's all I've got."

You nod quickly and turn back to your drink as another couple tears fall because you wish that wasn't it, you wish he had some other words for you, words like _Let's give it another shot_ and _I still like you, Amy_.

The sigh that rushes from your lips sounds so heartbroken you can see the aching sadness in his eyes when you look at him again, offering your drink to him. "Do you want this?" you ask softly. "I think it'd be better if I just went home." You're not going to feel any better there, but at least you won't have him staring at you with that sad, earnest expression that breaks your heart again because you know he wishes he could help but he doesn't love you anymore so really nothing helps.

He shakes his head and takes some money out of his pocket to settle your tab. "Ames, let me take you home," he offers, holding out his hand to you. "I want to make sure you get back safely."

You're reminded again of how much you lost with him, how much potential and could-have-beens are gone now. One of these days he's going to come to the station with a goofy smile on his face and tell you he got laid last night and she's perfect and beautiful, and they'll get married and have 2.5 kids and a dog, and he'll be happy, as happy as maybe you could have made him if you'd ever had a real chance. You can't imagine ever falling for someone like you have for him, so you'll have to watch it all from the sidelines and go home to your cats and your doilies and your "grandma lifestyle", as he's coined it.

It's really no wonder you start crying again after going down that depressing rabbit trail.

"Amy," Jake breathes, his voice wistful and sad as you let out a tiny sob, refusing to meet his eyes. "Amy," he repeats, leaning forward and brushing his fingertips against your cheekbone, "tell me what's wrong."

"I love you," you choke out in a wet, teary voice because things really can't get much worse, you've decided, and he might as well know so he can let you down gently next time he sees you sober. His eyes widen and his mouth opens to say something but you interrupt him. "I love you, Jake," you whisper sadly, dropping your head to stare at your clenched hands, "and loving you _sucks_."

You're on your feet almost instantly, wobbling just slightly but backing away anyway as he stands too and tries to reach out and steady you. "I'll be fine getting home," you ensure, turning and practically running out of the bar, ignoring the desperate way he calls your name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hope you enjoyed :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Brooklyn 99**

The hangover in the morning is no surprise.

Neither is the fact that you can't quite remember how you got home last night. You lie in bed for a moment, trying not to move or look at the light creeping through the window, your brain processing sluggishly the assumption that nothing terrible happened to you on your way home because you're still wearing the same clothes you were before and nothing hurts too badly apart from your head, which might actually split open at any moment.

A tentative glance at your phone reveals that you have to be at work in an hour.

It also reveals several dozen missed calls and texts from your colleagues, all of which you choose to ignore. Right now you have more important things to worry about, like how you're going to drop off the face of the earth, likely ending up in Mexico or maybe Ecuador for the rest of your life. Surely you could fax your resignation to Captain Holt, or perhaps hire a carrier pigeon?

Drunken confessions aren't your thing. Neither is the aftermath.

You just cannot deal with it today. You allot yourself five minutes of wallowing in misery, tears welling up in your eyes, before you get out of bed to face the day.

You should probably apologize. That would really be the best course of action, you consider ponderously, after downing some aspirin, getting the coffee going, and making your way to the shower. The hot stream of water down your back is revitalizing but also terrible because now you have to deal with the light of day and the consequences of your actions.

Maybe you should just call in sick.

No, that's a terrible idea. Gina would be over in an hour after faking some work emergency, just so she could come and get all the juicy gossip on what had happened the previous night. She'd most likely seen your grand exit from the bar, and you wouldn't doubt that Jake had then told everyone at the table what happened. Not because he was a gossip or trying to hurt you, but because he couldn't keep stuff like that in. A vault, he is not.

Strict professionalism also can't really cut it in this case. The fact is, you crossed a line, run across it like you were winning a marathon, and now you have to deal with that. The words can't be unspoken. And you can't deny them, either, because you can't lie to Jake. Confessing your love hasn't done anything to diminish it. You love him, and he doesn't love you, and things have never looked worse but "there's always another day", as your mom always say because she's a cheeseball. You'll just have to…talk to him.

The thought makes you even more nauseous than your hangover already is.

You make a conscious decision to arrive to work at your usual time, ten minutes early, because you already have plenty to deal with today and "Amy Santiago, late?" would make the list even longer, which might make you have a panic attack. This conscious decision quickly backfires when you realize you've forgotten your coffee, your phone, and your wallet.

It's enough to make you want to cry, as if you didn't already feel that way.

You also want to beg a cigarette off someone but at least still possess sufficient rationality to realize that "relapsed smoker" isn't going to be doing you any favors on eHarmony once you patch this whole mess up.

The thought of dating a series of strangers doesn't do much to brighten your mood, but it does focus your mind enough for you to recall the case you should be finishing up about the woman who thinks she has a stalker, possibly someone she recently dated through an online dating site. You'd been putting off doing door duty at her apartment, hoping you could trick Jake into doing it for you somehow, but suddenly the idea of mundane, solitary work has never been more appealing. You can deal with rude people all day if it'll give you some time to figure out how on earth to fix things with Jake while also fixing your broken heart.

There's only one way that would happen and judging by the shocked, almost horrified look he'd given you last night, that's not going to happen.

You hear his name before you see him, and glance up to see him walking in with Charles, who is giving an enthusiastic description of the excellent filet mignon he had last night. Jake's head is bowed, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and your stomach drops because clearly he's not himself and _you_ did that and you just want to bang your head against the wall because why did you ever open your big mouth? He's your best friend in the whole world and you ruined everything in one drunken night.

He almost walks right into you because he's not looking where he's going, and you can't help but gasp as his hand comes up to grasp your arm. His eyes are searching your face, drinking you in almost, and you rear back, desperately needing some distance and perspective because you're way too fragile for that kind of close contact right now. "Sorry," he murmurs after a moment, his hand dropping to his side where he clenches it into a loose fist. "I…wasn't paying attention."

"I'm sorry," you burst out in a whisper, a quick glance ensuring that nobody is paying attention or close enough to hear. His eyes widen but you keep talking. "I should never have said what I did last night," you continue quietly. "You're my best friend and I value that friendship _so much_ , and you have made your feelings very clear. I crossed a line and I know I can't uncross it but I really hope eventually things can go back to normal between us because I would hate myself if I ruined our friend—"

"Morning everyone!"

You're cut off abruptly as Gina comes waltzing into the station with her typical charisma, not caring that you are currently delivering the most important apology _ever_. You glance at Jake quickly to see that he's just staring at you, his expression a mix of what you might categorize as frustration, confusion, and shock. "I'm sorry," you whisper again before turning abruptly and dashing down the hall to the evidence locker.

You're relieved to find it empty and quickly find the darkest, loneliest corner in which to hide and try some deep breathing exercises and ponder various ways to leave the building without having to talk to anyone.

You flinch when you hear the door slam shut. "Amy!"

There's nowhere to hide but you still try to shrink further back into the darkness just as Jake rounds the corner and sees you. "There you are!" he exclaims, running a hand exasperatedly through his hair and making it stand up on end. He strides purposefully toward you, backing you further into your corner. "And may I just say that you are _terrible_ at dealing with your feelings, Amy Santiago."

You're a bit miffed that he has the gall to say that to you. Sure, you haven't been a prime example of emotional stability lately but this is _Jake Peralta_. There should never even be a question that you are the more emotionally stable of the two.

You probably shouldn't remark on his words but you can't help yourself. "That's saying a lot," you mumble, refusing to meet his eyes. "If it's between you and me, I win at dealing with feelings."

Jake rolls his eyes. "First of all, it's not a competition. Second of all, what evidence do you have? First, you tell me that you love me— _you love me_ , Amy—and then you take off into the night. Then today you tell me you're sorry and you'll do anything to fix it, and you run away again! Don't you even care what I have to say about any of it?"

"I know what you have to say about it, Jake!" you exclaim suddenly, stepping forward and causing him to take a step back in surprise. You can't take this quietly, unable to take the truth of his words anymore. "You've moved on, I get it, but you're right, _I love you_ , and I don't exactly want to hear you tell me straight up that you don't love me anymore! Maybe it's selfish but I'm trying to salvage what little pride I have left. And you can call me a coward but my heartache capacity is kind of at its limit so forgive me if I wanted to avoid hearing you say outright that you're over me."

"I never said that," Jake argues fiercely, stepping even closer to you. "I never said that, Amy! I've been trying to act like everything's hunky dory and just…platonic between us, but I _never_ said that I was over you."

You stare at him for a long moment in stunned silence, watching as he takes in several heaving breaths, his eyes wild. "What?" you manage to squeak out.

Jake studies you for a moment before taking another step closer, effectively caging you in as his hands move to rest against the wall on either side of your body, his face inches from yours. "You are my best friend," he says softly, his voice more serious than you've ever heard it before. "You are the only person who can make me both the angriest, and the happiest I've ever been. And I know I'm not great with these kinds of things, but I want to try with you." He leans back, cupping your face with his hand. "If you hadn't run away last night," he says softly, then adds with a low laugh, "and also if you were sober," he continues seriously, "I would have told you that I love you too. And I would have asked you out to dinner."

You were ready to deal with him letting you down gently. You were ready for the ensuing awkwardness of unrequited love. You had a plan for all possible eventualities…except this one.

Jake Peralta loves you, and he wants to date you, and you were just not prepared for that.

"What?" you squeak out again.

Jake takes a step back, still close but not quite crowding you, and takes your hand in his. "I love you," he repeats, and then is quiet, because he knows you better than anyone and he knows that sometimes you need to hear things more than once and have some time to process.

"You love me," you repeat softly, your heart full of both disbelief and the kind of joy you didn't think was possible, the kind that makes you want to go screaming through the streets even though that is completely unlike you.

His smile is wide and beautiful and you want to kiss it and decide _to hell with it_ just as he's repeating, "I love y—" You grab his face and press your lips to the smile that matches your own.

It's the best kiss you've ever had. It's sloppy and messy, and you keep giggling and he's laughing too but his hand is also clutching desperately at your hip and your fingers are in his hair and the solid contact of him pressing you against the wall is the only thing keeping your knees from giving way.

Not even Charles' exultant screams could pull you away.


End file.
